


let's never (stop the rain)

by decidingdolan



Series: theopolis (use at your own discretion) [15]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: (or the lack of), Clothes, Fluff, Harry's POV, Introspection, M/M, Musing, Rain, Second Person, Sexual Tension, recall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1983795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd told you to take your clothes off, said you'd catch a cold. A touch of his hand on your shoulder, and you'd felt your skin on fire. (And he was the one with the forgotten umbrella.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's never (stop the rain)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esmidsm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esmidsm/gifts), [windmill69](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=windmill69).



> _The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain._  
>  _\--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

One: It's July. Middle of the goddamn fucking July. A couple of good months away from May, the rainiest month known to a New Yorker, and you'd counted yourself as pretty much one—you'd known this city. Lived in it a long while. Met the most important person in your world. Fallen in love. Fallen in life. (The love bit was unwarranted—you didn’t want to be sure. If it was love. If it wasn't. You didn't know.)

(The life bit wasn't your fault. Most people did get to say—did get a say—that they have a future to look forward to. Years. Rest of their lives, would be the commonly used, cliche phrase they’d throw around like a new rumor they couldn't wait to spread. Time. Seconds that lasted. Were spent. Passed. And still they'd have more. For you, days were a ticking time bomb, a countdown you couldn't revert back. Rewind. Pause. Plead for more. Money, you'd got to spend—lavishly, excessively. Take hedonism to the extreme. Grab desire by its head. Quench your thirst soon as it started. Turn prodigal into an understated word. Make headlines for the kick of it, get wasted. Get lost. Have intoxication replace your conscience. Forget thoughts and turn to impulses. You'd fallen. Fallen far, and you couldn't stop yourself. Time and money started blending in when you did, when you were halted, when you were conscious enough, when you could think—actually think—and you wanted to dissolve. Run away. Because none of it was enough. Your life. Distorted, biased towards death, bent on self-destruction.

And you were only too good in leading it on that path.)

Two: It started out as a perfectly sunny Wednesday when you'd brought the limo around to pick him up for tea.

He stood on the steps of his porch, the same one you'd turned your back on nine years ago, plaid shirt and denim jeans on. Feet clicking those brown leather oxfords you'd bought him that time for the premiere. (Good.) Usual wild mop of hair disguised in its gelled up form. Those cheerful browns smiling down at you as you opened the door of the limo and stepped out. A hand waving you closer.

That unspoken _C'mon, come to me_ sign.

You walked up to him. Took your time with the steps, and he threw his arms around you and hugged you to his chest.

Hey, he whispered, lips pressed to the top of your head, What’s up with you?

What’s up with you. Fucking rude. Took his chances with you whenever he could, and you felt your cheeks horribly warm, heated, your face squished against the cotton fabric of his navy and white plaid shirt—and that bit of visible skin peeking through the gap between the the shirt's middle. It's seventy seven degrees out, barely killer heat in your books, and you were positively on fire.

(Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to drop by so early. On second thought, it was half past one. Scratch that.

As if you could reason when he was near.

It was insane, this anomaly of a switch in your head, and crazier was your conscience giving him its key.

Like here, this is Harry. Perfectly corrupted, shameless, self-indulgent hipster. Take him, touch him. Fuck him. Get inside him and steal him away from himself. Please do. We're more than happy to accommodate you in doing so.

What was upsetting, to top that off, was his talent in manipulating, in abusing, this privilege of his on you.

Whoever said nerds were clueless and innocent was under a horrendous misconception.

This was one such instance, for case studies, of one who wouldn't stop ruining you.)

Suffocating, you replied, muffled by the fabric, your hands drifting down to his waist.

Held on. Long as he would, anyway.

He chuckled, ruffled your hair, and loosened his grip. Let you go, his hands on your shoulders.

Sorry, he muttered, smug more than sheepish, satisfied more than embarrassed, Couldn't help it.

This love. These affections. These feelings. This attraction. Whatever you had for him, or him for you. It was, frankly, scary. Overwhelming. Dizzying. Like wild fire, like water spilling over a brimming glass. Too much to take in, and you'd still be slamming your fist on the counter, asking the bartender for another shot of whiskey. Not caring less about the type.

You were hooked. He'd baited, and you'd caught it. Bitten hard and fast. And allowed yourself to slip, death hiding in your shadows.

You hated involvements. Complications. Relationships. Commitments. Me and you and consecutive nights on the same bed. Dialing the same number. Waiting at the same doorstep. Caring about what he may think of you. Texting and calling and needing to hear the same voice. The same reassuring words. The same sentiments. Let rain, acidic from words exchanged and lies untold, corrode your heart. Let time, planned and spontaneous, interminable and brief, twist the strands in your mind, tighten your nerves and lock in your calendar. Let games, deliberate and unexpected, dictate your actions.

And with him, chocolate doe eyes, you'd checked yourself in willingly.

Played, when you'd been distant about getting involved. Teased, like you'd never gotten enough of him grabbing you over, pushing you down, and crawling on top of you, face red, breaths short and voice bass low, because he'd had enough. Waited, texted, phoned in the middle of the night, booked restaurants and had him call your bed his home. Arranged to meet and asked him to monopolize your time, pooling your seconds into him, investing in his words, his lips, his cock. Wanted to call him yours.

To have him call you his.

You blamed time. The unsettled feelings stirring in you when you'd turned away on that porch, years before. The last time he'd hugged you, the last time you'd ever felt at ease thrusting yourself into someone else's space, into someone else's arms.

You raised a hand, stroked the back of his neck and drew him back down, so your lips could meet.

Two point oh: he tasted like cinnamon, this hour of day. Cinnamon, Flour, and maple syrup. Probably a bit of strawberries. Aunt May's wheat cakes, you could tell in a heartbeat. You'd found them disgusting—preferring buttermilk pancakes over those cakes when asked. Fed yourself half a spoon when she offered you a plate one morning after you'd slept over. Spat out what you didn't chew when she was gone. Mine? he'd thrown you a childish, toothy smile (Think you're cute, aren't you, nerd, you'd pushed him away, your hand on his chest. Didn't bother to retract it until a couple of seconds after. (Who were you to blame? That chest was—just—opened up under your hand.) He didn't seem to mind.) Yours, you'd dragged the plate to him, beside the one he already had in front, and he'd nodded, picked up his fork.

Yours. Mine. Single words than whole sentences. Shared codes than long phrases. Because that was the way between you two. That was how you talked. Understood each other. You didn't need more.

We should go, you murmured against his lips, eyes closed, feet planted on the porch in front of him like you wanted to live there, The place'll be full.

Two point two: You liked saying that: We. Him and you, together as one word. Lumped in. Collected. A unit, a couple. We. The two of you. We.

I guess, he answered, head bent, nose nuzzling your neck, a hand fingering the collar of your pale blue Varvatos shirt. You'd thrown on a dark blue blazer (Saint Laurent) and jeans (also Varvatos. He'd invited you to a private showing three days ago.) and the chestnut leather loafers you'd gotten from Tod's.

I guess we should.

 

* * *

 

Three: You loathed rain. This ongoing downpour. Torrential storm. Annoying droplets you could take, but this was critical. This was furious, serious temper tantrum on the weather’s part. Petulant, capricious, and wanted you to be, too.

Rain blocked you, stopped you from heading out. Dripping wet water that soaked you up to the skin and left you cold, shivering.

He extended an arm when stepping out of the cafe, door pushed open, you in tow behind him.

What is it, you asked, seeing him hesitant, eyes raised to the sky. Darkened clouds, bunched up, had clogged the sky, ready to pour.

He frowned, You probably won't want to know but—

\--It's going to rain, you finished his sentence, voice grim. Already irritated. This was a good day. This was one of your better days. Jasmine green tea. Finger sandwiches. Macarons and creme brûlée. Leave it to the gods to ruin it with rain.

\--and I haven't brought an umbrella, he added, when a drop fell onto his open palm. He drew his arm back to his side. Turned to you, actual sheepish grin on his face this time.

You shook your head, reached for his hand. Pressed your palm to his. Let the drop seeped into your skin.

Austin's bringing the car around, you poked your head out from behind him, squinting your eyes to spot the limo outside of the hotel.

One (again): It's July. Middle of goddamn fucking July. the sun's rays were right in your eyes—thank God for Oliver Spencer—around noon, not a cloud in the clean, sky blue palette when you'd glanced up. It was hot. Scorching. And you'd thought, foolishly, the heat was going to last.

Your phone vibrated against your flap pocket. Austin. You fished out the silver iPhone, unlocked the screen, and read the message that had you groaning, hand slapping your forehead.

He looked at you then, and you saw yourself reflected in those eyes. When he'd given you his full attention, and stilled his world to let yours in, when he'd singled you out and held you at the center of his sight—

\--they could look at you, anyone of them, and he'd always be the one who mattered.

What happened, his eyes asked, hand squeezed your palm.

'S fine, he didn't die or anything, you said, corner of your lips folded down, Some trouble downtown. Car's got to go to a garage.

He chewed his lip.

The pitter patter had intensified. Cold winds, a full-out storm. Rushing, heavy curtains of water that echoed, drowned out other traffic sounds.

And he'd forgotten his umbrella. (As if it was your responsibility to remember.)

Hard to get a cab in this rain, he muttered, and you pouted.

Hand felt clammy in his now, funny warm. Sweating, again.

I'm not waiting around, you retorted. Swung his hand.

Like a child. He'd have thought. Like a child.

And he wouldn't be wrong.

He whipped his head around, eyebrow raised, We'd have to walk, Har. I don't think—

You swung your joined hands forward, into the rain.

Hey, it's only three blocks from your place, right?

 

* * *

 

Four: Maybe you didn’t hate rain that much after all.

(Okay, slightly. Still slightly.)

(You couldn't not hate it completely. No.)

You’d sneezed when you stepped into his townhouse, shaking off your shoes and closed the door behind you. He’d turned, hand grabbed yours and pulled you into him.

His shirt was soaked through, thin fabric clinging to his skin, his jeans damp, plastered on his legs, as yours were. Your blazer that you didn't bother to take off when you both stepped out (This is Yves Saint Laurent, you'd told him, I'm not using him as an umbrella, sorry.) flopped on your back, wet. Your shirt was shielded, partly, by the blazer at the back, its front a wrinkled, soggy mess.

The hair? Don't even get you started on that.

Hundreds of dollars and now a shabby, disordered style, water dripping from your bangs onto your shirt. Wanted to breathe, but the damp odor of drenched clothes was suffocating.

His hair was no less better, the black mane sodden, wet strands glued on his forehead.

Think you should take your clothes off, he'd suggested, hand rubbing your back, You'll catch a cold.

You'd laughed, shaky, shrill, and let him peel the blazer off of you.

Splat on the floor, a few steps from the welcome mat Aunt May had laid out, was your wrecked Saint Laurent.

(Like you'd wear it twice, anyway.)

And you'd stood there, facing him, toes rubbing against each other. Stared.

He'd knelt, to your surprise, in front of you, taken your foot on his knee, carefully pulling off your sock—soiled, the white barely visible—to the floor.

Told you, he was murmuring, And you didn't listen.

You'd watched, wide eyed, mouth agape. Lips dry. Words dead in your throat.

_Really. Peter. Really._

Another sock off, and he'd crawled closer to you, arms raised. Unzipped your jeans, pulled them and your boxers to your ankles, and you'd sucked in a breath, hands on his shoulders. Stepped out of your jeans, and he'd started to get up.

Bent his head, leaned in, and pressed his lips to your ankle, hands gripped your thighs, worked his way up. Mapped your skin. Moist lips, and you'd groaned, nails digging into his skin.

_Sweet Jesus._

He was half up now, fingers at the last button of your shirt, lips swallowing in each inch of skin he'd uncovered with each button, and your knees shook. Blood rushed to your cock.

Watching him alone. Mussed up hair, thick eyebrows, rapt, doting chocolate brown eyes peering up at you through long lashes.

Tongue circled your nipple. Lapped, sucked, and you whimpered. Eyelids fluttered shut. Thrusted yourself toward him.

_Pete._

Whisper on your lips.

He’d finished at your collar. (You’d dropped your arms then.) Lips sealing your skin. Nibbled at the nape of your neck, and he'd ripped breaths right out of you. A brush of his hand on your shoulder, and your shirt fell to the floor.

He was back at his full height. Clothed chest, legs, brushing against your naked body. And you wanted to grab him, slam that frame against the wall.

Better? he'd asked, staring down at you. Those mocking eyes. That lying, betraying tongue.

And you'd nudged his leg with your knee, spread them open. Stepped in between, arms at his waist. Tiptoed up and captured his lips with yours. Started stepping back, led him in the direction of his room, and he'd followed, lips locked onto you.

Stumbled with you, into you. Lips, tongues, teeth. Blurred, haywire. But with you two, nobody had ever said it was going to be clean and simple.

He'd reached an arm behind you and pushed the door open, as you'd retreated back in, hands tearing his shirt apart.

He was slow, patient, took his time, and you were anything but.

Got his shirt off, in pieces, on the carpet in his room, a hand splayed on his chest, stroked. Toned lines, and he'd gasped.

_Harry._

One word. Your name in his tongue. Rasping, stirred on by desire, and pain shot through your cock. Need. Need.

Sounds of doors slamming shut outside the room, and he'd jumped, startled.

Panic, you'd read his eyes, and knew.

Aunt May.

He’d detached from you, stepping back to the door, still facing you, eyes hungry. Glazed.

Pulled the door close and turned the knob.

You’d sniggered at the bewildered look in his face. He'd staggered over, finger on his lips, miming the universal 'please be quiet' sign, and you couldn't stop.

So you still haven't told her, you'd whispered when he'd gotten close, your hands working at the buttons of his jeans.

Peter’d cocked an eye, Fuck you, and you'd sent him your most saccharine smile, as he tugged jeans and boxers to his feet, and stepped out of them.

Please do, you'd grinned, when he gave your chest a little push.

And you'd fallen on the bed, backing along the length to the lone pillow at one end, grabbing it to place under your hips.

He'd thrown himself on top, hands dragging on the mattress as his legs straddled your frame, cock brushing your thighs, as he’d moved up, and you’d moaned.

Loud.

Like you could help yourself.

He'd leaned down, lips capturing the skin beneath your jawline, arm extended across your chest to the drawers beside the bed, dragging one open.

You'd half-turned, blind hands reaching for both, the lube and a condom, and handed them to him.

He'd torn the package and tossed it to the floor, rolled the condom on, and squinted some lube on his palm, coating his cock with it.

You'd watched him, hands gripping the mattress.

He’d slipped two fingers into your hole, and you'd shut your eyes. Mewled.

Yes.

_Yes._

Stretched you out. Tested you. His voice beside your ear. He'd pressed his chest on yours now, his breaths ghosting your neck.

Can I, he'd asked. He'd always asked, and you'd groaned in reply.

Out went the fingers, and he'd slipped himself in, full and heavy, and you'd gasped, panted, when he was deep inside you.

Pain. Delicious pain.

He’d breathed at your voice, cheeks crimson, flushing, before starting to thrust. Slow, gentle. Careful. And you wanted to remind him it wasn't at all your first time.

Harder, Pete, Harder, you were screaming out.

_More. Give me more._

You'd cupped his cheeks with your hands, drawn him to your lips.

Kiss. Thrust. Kiss. Thirst.

He'd sped up, breathing hard, as he did. Sweat popping up on his forehead. You'd thrown your head back against the bare mattress, mouth wide, open. Moaned with him, rocked your hips, wrung your legs over his shoulders. Hands slapped on his back, nails pressing into him.

There. Right there. Harder. Faster. There.

Slipped into a rhythm, both of you, and your voices’d mixed, twisted, a mixture of incomprehensible cries, of urgent, interrupted breaths, hastened and cut short with every thrust.

Your cock bopped between your bodies, pulsating, leaking pre-come.

The bed had creaked, grunted from the pressure you were going through. You'd stretched your arms back, hands splayed at the counter behind the bed, pushing away papers, photos, books, you didn't know, trying to make space. To have a place to hold onto as he'd thrusted deeper into you, harder, frequent. Thrown himself in, as you'd asked.

You’d heard sounds—the doorknob turning. Distant, a whisper.

And Peter had frozen, laid there on top of you, a hand hastily dragging up a blanket from the foot of the bed to cover you two up. You'd dropped your legs to the mattress, as the door squeaked open, enough for Aunt May to poke her head in.

Fuck, you’d sworn, soft, a hand slapped his arm, Didn't you—

He’d frowned (and your mind had found that adorable, on top of the current frustration it was experiencing), I was going t—

"You kids doing okay?" she'd asked, eyes wide, probing, and you felt Peter tense up on you, "I heard sounds."

I blame your nephew, you'd thought, stretched your frame, and thought you saw stars for the slightest moment.

"Whoa— _oh_ —oh _Jesus_ ," Peter’d gritted his teeth, fists clenched on the mattress, twisted his frame, only ended up slipping himself into you, "We're fuc—fine, Aunt May."

Hand slapped his ass, and he’d breathed, sharp,the crimson spreading from his cheeks to his hairline, his neck.

"Don't—uh—," he loosened his fist, brushed his hair back on his forehead, "w—worry about—us, ah, fuck."

She'd raised an eyebrow.

Good observation.

You'd grinned up at her, waved a hand, "We're alright, Aunt May."

Her nephew's cock was still buried in your ass, how alright could you be.

"Pete's just freaking out more than a litt— _Christ_."

The bastard (your bastard, just to clarify) had chosen that moment to thrust into you, and it'd taken all the pieces of strayed consciousness you had left not to growl aloud.

Stuck his tongue out at you when you'd glanced up.

Fucking Peter.

She'd nodded, eyes yet skeptical, but stepped away and closed the door.

I can't believe you, you'd muttered, legs propped up over his shoulders, position resumed.

He'd shrugged off the blanket, rolled his eyes.

And he'd gone back into it, jostled himself into you, groaning when he came, a few minutes later, body quivering against your writhing one.

He'd drawn himself out, hand caressing your cock, the other at your jerking hip.

Come on now, his eyes seemed to say, hand stroking fast. Breaths. And you'd exploded into his chest, pleasure buzzing through your frame.

Laid back on the bed, your chest heaving, legs down, palm at your forehead.

Jesus, you'd yelled out, fist hitting the mattress.

He'd rolled over, lying on his back next to you, finger tugging a strand of hand behind your ear, eyes unfazed (for now).

(And you'd wondered how he could be so.)

Just me, he'd whispered, chuckling, just me.

Lame, you'd shot back, bumped your shoulder against his.

We're never doing this at your place again.

He'd reached across you, grabbing a few tissues to clean himself up, and flopped back down, hand wiping his chest with the tissues.

Why, he'd tilted his head, voice mock curious, My bed too small for you?

You'd flipped on your side, facing him, finger drawing across his chin. Not exactly a four-poster bed, is it, you'd answered.

Come on, Pete, you'd pressed your lips to his jawline, sucking the skin there, You know why.

Accidents, he’d grinned, humming in his throat, Like the rain.

A hand was drawing lines on your arm, and your nerves bristled. Trembled.

All part of the fun, don’t you think?

His words had stood out in your mind.

And you’d sighed.

Accidents. Rain. You despised spontaneity. You detested the unplanned, interruptions, the impromptu, bumps in the schedule and meetings known a couple of minutes beforehand.

The only son. The perfectionist. They’d called you a one-track mind, a dogged soul, a straight line. You’d wanted things organized your way, arranged, compartmentalized, categorized, ready. Ahead of time.

All part of the fun. What was he talking about? What was the fun in that? Scrambling, struggling to make do with what’d been ruined. Worked with makeshift plans, substitutes, and you’d been against them. Against rain, against interruptions. All of them.

Relax, he’d muttered, You don’t need to worry.

Worry. Like saying “always,” and “never,” being final, settled on your statements. Decisions. Unwavering, resolute. That sort of thing. Worry. Like turning concepts over and over in your mind, circling around mazes you’d forgotten exits of.

Worry.

Don’t need to.

Maybe. Maybe he was right. Maybe the day wasn’t as annoying, as bad as you’d thought it turned out to be.

Didn’t end up at your mansion, two pairs of feet propped up on the bed, listening to the new copy of _Rigoletto_ you’d gotten from the record store yesterday, before drifting off to sleep. Didn’t waltz up the stairs, clothes dry and hair tidy, your hand in his.

Didn’t.

And it’d still all turned out to be quite okay. Fun, even. The way you’d run through the streets together, two maniacs laughing in Queens, getting soaked by the rain. The way he’d handled you, taken over after a sneeze. The way he’d stripped you, peeled away layers, asked if you were feeling better. The way he’d gotten back at you, in front of Aunt May, after you’d teased him for forgetting to lock the door.

The way he was lying beside you now, breaths settled, calm, eyes warm, sweet. Lips whispering, singing a familiar tune in G. Hand lingering on your skin.

Let it rain, you’d heard him say, Let it rain.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic for Marvel Daily on Twitter. Theme/Topic was: rain.
> 
> Thank you so much for stopping by, reading, leaving kudos! Y'all mean the world to me. Comments/Criticisms greatly appreciated! :)
> 
> With love and ristretto,
> 
> x


End file.
